I’m only playing in the circle of imagination created by Tolkien. I own nothing of his characters or tale, but the place they have in my heart. I offer this as a matter of honoring a ranger, a writer of great talent, and a friend that comes along only once in a lifetime. I’m late, but like most dreamers, I’ve been imagining.

Happy Birthday, Meckinock. I wish you many more, and I hope to celebrate them with you.

Thanks to Daw the Minstrel for her excellent beta skills. Any mistakes that remain are all mine…darn it.

A note of apology: I’ve borrowed a few OC’s from Meckinock without her permission….but then, if I had asked, the story wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it? Still, I hope I’ve not harmed them beyond repair.

                      The Circle

The boy looked frightful. In the light of the full moon, his skin paled to a muted blue and the hollows of his face were dark shadows. His hair jutted in all directions, spiked by sweat and haste.

Halbarad sat on the ground next to the campfire, scraping the blade of his knife across a rectangular whetstone. Elrohir, the son of the lord of Rivendell, Elrond Half-elven, sat across from him. The elf had been resting, his eyes nearly closed, but with the arrival of the boy, he abandoned his reverie.

Halbarad stopped the rhythmic scrape when the tip of the blade cleared the whetstone. He studied the boy. His youngest son had finished taking first watch. It wasn’t the first time the boy had stood watch, but this was his first trip away from home with rangers.

Hurin had turned fifteen only a few weeks earlier. When he was born, he had arrived late and fat and content to start a new life in the world. He made his entry on the twenty-ninth day of the fifth moon cycle instead of nearer the first days of the new month as the women had predicted. “He’ll be a dreamer,” Halbarad’s mother had said. As much as Halbarad hated to admit it, she had been right. The boy had his head in the clouds more than on his shoulders, preferring to scribble poetry or record stories he’d heard rather than weed the garden. Being distracted and late was his signature.

“What is it?” Halbarad asked.

The boy didn’t bother to blink from his daze.

Halbarad jumped to his feet. “Orcs?” he asked, alarm rousing every muscle in his body.

The small group of rangers had been on the trail of a group of the Dark Lord’s creatures for four days. Day and night, they had pressed onward, taking only a few hours rest for the men and horses with each turn of the day. At the midpoint of that night, he had called for respite, set the first watch and settled down in the light of the moon to wait for daybreak when they would once again try to make up the time lost while succumbing to the need for sleep. Halbarad wouldn’t rest, however, until his son completed his watch and was ensconced in his blanket, safe and at his side.

The boy shook his head. “No, they have not doubled back.”

Halbarad’s shoulders slumped with relief. “Then what?” He crossed his legs and sat back down. He ran his blade over the stone again.

When the boy again didn’t answer, Halbarad pointed with the whetstone to the ground. “Sit down before you fall down. Either tell me what’s wrong or go to your bedroll.”

Hurin eased himself to the ground much more slowly than a youth should need to do. Halbarad had seen old men move with more speed than this slip of a boy.

“Father,” Hurin said, then paused as if searching for the proper words.

“I’m listening.” Halbarad dropped the whetstone into the pouch that contained oily rags, whetstones and a file to smooth out more stubborn nicks. He placed the knife on a wide soiled cloth he had laid out on the ground at his knee.

“I saw something,” Hurin blurted out.

“What did you see?” Halbarad asked with deliberate patience. He was tired, irritable, and not in the mood for tales of fancy. But the boy was young. Halbarad was not too old to recall his first patrols with his father. It was those memories that stayed his temper.

“There was something…somebody in the forest,” Hurin said.

“Who?”

“I don’t know,” Hurin said. “They didn’t look like real people.”

Halbarad held back the sarcastic reply that immediately jumped to his mind. “Explain,” he said instead.

“They were invisible.”

“Hurin,” Halbarad said with patience even more strained than before, “if something is invisible, how can you see it?”

“They were mere outlines,” he said. “Like a shadow on water.”

Elrohir sat up from where he had been leaning against the trunk of large oak. “It is possible that you have seen some of the houseless,” he said. “I have long heard tales of elves who did not wish to leave these shores and choose to remain without corporeal bodies. What you see is only their essence.”

Hurin shook his head. “They weren’t elves.”

“Then what were they?” Halbarad asked. He made a mental note to ask Elrohir later if he had ever seen any of these ghostly elves wandering about. Halbarad hadn’t and had no desire to make their acquaintance. If Elrohir could give him a location where these strange apparitions were found, then he would be sure to take another route.

“I think...” Hurin stuttered while picking a loose thread on the hem of his tunic. “I think they were children.”

Halbarad glanced at Elrohir. Did elven children make such choices? Elrohir simply shook his head as if he could make neither head nor tail of ghost children.

“What were they doing, Hurin?” Halbarad asked.

“I think they were playing. They seemed to be running and hiding behind trees as if playing a game.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“No,” Hurin said, his voice fading into thought. “Well, maybe. I think I heard someone laughing, but it was so faint, I could have imagined it.”

Halbarad sighed. Hurin’s imagination seemed to be fully engaged. There was no dispute there. “I don’t think I’d worry much about it,” he said. “We’ve been traveling scrub lands for the last few days; the trees probably seem a little disorienting. A tired man can see many strange things in the wilds.”

“I really did see them,” Hurin said, offended by Halbarad’s dismissal.

“I don’t doubt your word, Hurin. I believe you saw something, but I cannot tell you what it was. Since the…children don’t seem to mean us any harm, then I suggest you get some rest. The sun will be up far too soon now.”

“Father….” Hurin began.

Halbarad cut him off. “I believe you.”

Hurin joined the other rangers sleeping at the edge of the copse. He threw out his blanket and lay down, then pulled the corner of the blanket over his shoulders and rolled onto his side into a ball.

Hurin had always slept curled up like a cat. Halbarad could not count the times he had awakened to find the little lump pressed into his back, wedged between him and his wife. Not all Hurin’s dreams had been good ones.

“He saw something,” Elrohir said.

Halbarad turned back to the elf. “But what?”

Elrohir shrugged. “I don’t know, but it was enough to unsettle him.”

“Really, Elrohir, ghosts?”

“You do not believe that spirits can become bound to the forces of Arda?” Elrohir asked with mischievous challenge.

“Let’s just say I’ve never seen one.”

“Then if you have not seen one, they cannot possibly exist?”

“No evidence has a way of making me skeptical.”

“Have you seen the wind?” Elrohir’s wry smile gave Halbarad the urge to strangle the elf. Since that would most likely get him killed by the elf’s brother and create an uproar between men and elves, he grinned in return.

“I have seen the leaves of a tree dance, and I’ve felt it on my skin. That qualifies as evidence.”

Elrohir chuckled and stretch his legs to their full length. “Then why don’t you and I do a little wind chasing?”

“Look for the ghost children?”

“Why not? You’re wound tighter than honeysuckle on a decayed fence. At least you can reassure Hurin in the morning if we find a rational explanation.”

“Our time would be better spent sleeping.”

“True, if you were going to get any.”

Halbarad stood and stretched, rolling his shoulders to ease the cramps of long days traveling and nights spent on the ground. He sheathed his knife at his waist. “Then come along, my elven ghost hunter. Let’s find what moon reflection giggles and plays tag.”

The night air was too warm for so early in the season, and a trickle of sweat rolled down between Halbarad’s shoulder blades. He tried to imagine cool autumn nights and his own bed, but the comforts of home were too far away at that moment for him to recall anything that brought him solace.

At the edge of Hurin’s former watch, he let out a low whistle to alert the second watch. Being skewered by an arrow would not improve his mood. An answering thrill carried from across the small tributary babbling in the dark.

From the corner of his eye, he caught glimpses of the elf at his side, but the footsteps of his companion were absent. The crunch of his own boots on the pine needle and leaf-lined forest floor was all he could hear. Halbarad could move with the stealth of a seasoned ranger, but the elf glided along as if his feet didn’t touch the ground. That was annoying enough, but Elrohir’s pleasure at dragging him deeper into the woods on a spirit hunt increased his desire to boot the son of Elrond in his dusty behind. And the elf was enjoying every second of irritation he was causing. Halbarad grinned; retaliation was his specialty. A ranger had to amuse himself when boredom set in. He could wait.

He and Elrohir cut east toward the stream. The roiling water glistened in the moonlight between the thick foliage and undergrowth as if jewels had been set afloat along its surface. Halbarad ducked to avoid a low fir limb while Elrohir stopped and bent over a clear patch of ground.

“What?” Halbarad asked.

Elrohir squatted and studied the scuffed dirt, then sighed. “Nothing. Deer. Going to the stream.”

“That’s probably all Hurin saw.” Halbarad shoved his fists onto his hips, opening his body on the off chance a breeze would blow by. “A fawn still with his spots.”

Elrohir stood, dusting his hands. “Could be,” he agreed, scanning the moonlit woods. He stopped when he arrived back at Halbarad. “But I think Hurin knows what a fawn looks like.”

“In the dark, things often appear to be what they’re not. Even you look like a normal man. No one can see those ears.”

“Pity, isn’t it?” Elrohir said walking toward the stream. “The delicacies of my ears have inspired more than one maiden to song.”

“Scream in horror, you mean,” Halbarad muttered.

Elrohir ignored him and stepped on a rock jutting out into the stream. He turned, taking in the length of water and the woods on the other side. “Everything looks quiet.”

On the opposing shore, a figure walked out onto the bank and held up his hand in greeting. Halbarad returned the wave. The man hopped long from one rock to another toward them, and Halbarad waited with amusement to see if Brandol would take an unplanned dip. Despite Brandol’s practical nature and serious approach to life, he was often the source of amusement for the rangers. Halbarad could not quite decide if the older ranger’s offhand remarks and occasional clumsiness were the result of hidden humor or an innocence never cured by age. But in battle, Brandol was still a man with a wicked bow draw and a sword that sang. Halbarad never knew what to expect from him.

Brandol reached them in less than a dozen steps, dry and composed after traversing the slippery rock path. “What brings you out here?”

Halbarad scratched at the stubble on his sweaty face. “Just looking.”

“For what? There’s a watch posted, you know. We’ll let you know if there’s anything to see.”

“What do you know of this place?” Elrohir asked.

“Here?” Brandol asked.

“No,” Halbarad said. “Butterbur’s tavern.” He grunted. “Of course, here.”

Brandol coughed air out his nose. “It’s the woods. Lots of trees, a stream or two and some furry residents.”

“Thank you,” Halbarad said. “That explains a lot.”

Elrohir swept his hand out. “There is something odd about this area. The air feels heavy and oddly cool in spots for so hot a night. Is there any history of this region that might linger?”

“History is lingering memory,” Brandol said, joining Elrohir in scanning the area as if looking for what made the place strange. “But you’re right; there is something unsettling about this section of the forest.”

“Unsettling?” Halbarad asked. “How?”

Brandol brought his gaze back to Halbarad. “Old stories. This area was once settled, you know.”

Halbarad scowled. Yes, he knew that. Tell him something he didn’t know.

Brandol went on. “My grandfather used to tell us stories by firelight.” Brandol smiled. “My mother thought he was trying to frighten the children and complained often about his tales, but we loved his yarns of the old and odd.”

“What odd tales?” Elrohir asked.

“There was a village once in this area, part of the forts here and north of the East Road. What few people were left here after disease and misfortune left their marks, Angmar finished off.” He flicked his hand as if shooing away flies. “There’s nothing left now, not even a stone from the past.”

“A lot changed in those days,” Halbarad said. “But what’s that got to do with odd tales?”

Brandol grinned, a dark gash of a smile lit by a row of white teeth. “That’s the good part,” he said. “My grandfather told us that the Barrow-downs were not the only place in Eriador to see the dead lingering. He told us stories about the bizarre sightings rangers often encountered around the old places.”

Halbarad grunted; he’d never heard these stories, and he’d been through this section of Eriador more times than a dog scratched his fleas in a day. But then, his father was not one to repeat such stories. “I see,” he drawled. “This is a set up. You and Hurin…” he pointed his finger at Elrohir, “…and you, are trying to rattle me.”

Brandol tilted his head with a blank expression on his face. “What are you blithering about?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Halbarad said. “The ghosts, the children. We’re on the heels of an enemy company, and you’re playing tricks.”

“What is he talking about?” Brandol asked Elrohir.

“He thinks we’ve put Hurin up to spooking him.”

Brandol swiveled back toward Halbarad. “Believe it or not, Halbarad, we all have better sense than to pull such a stunt when we have serious business to attend.” Brandol left Halbarad and Elrohir and stepped on the first rock to return to the other side of the stream. He flapped his hand in the air and took the other rocks one by one until he disappeared in the darkness of the forest.

Elrohir crossed his arms. “I think you offended him.”

“Me?” Halbarad snapped. “I didn’t start this.”

Elrohir turned his back on Halbarad and started back to the camp. “Let’s get some sleep,” he muttered.

                      *********

Late in the evening the following day, the scout Halbarad sent out returned with news.

“The orcs went to ground just over the rise. They’ve made the day under a root and water worn overhang within sight of Weathertop,” Hadron told the waiting rangers.

Halbarad knew the place. Years of spring floods had undercut the shallow bank, exposing roots and hollowing the ground into earthen cells large enough for men to shelter if they remained sitting upright.

“It’ll be dark soon,” Halbarad replied turning his face to the sinking sun. “How many?”

“No more than twenty, as best I can count.”

Twenty would be crowded, but not impossible.

“Then they’ve joined no others,” Elrohir said. “Twenty will be like picking wine bottles off a wall.”

Halbarad fought the urge to look at Hurin. His first battle. Training would have to be tested at some point, but a part of Halbarad still wished no man’s son had to take up weapons against evil. But evil would not leave because his sensibilities were offended; in fact, evil thrived on horror.

“Then let’s give them a wake-up party,” Halbarad said, letting his hand rest on the hilt of his sword.

There were six rangers, with Elrohir seven in all. “We’ll position ourselves on the rise around them,” Halbarad said. “When they show their ugly faces, we’ll take out as many as we can by bow before we cross blades.” Pointing at Hurin and Brandol, he said, “Hurin, you’re to stay at Brandol’s side and on the ridge. Use your bow. I don’t want you engaged in hand-to-hand battle if you can avoid it. If Brandol needs to join those of us in the wash, you stay put. You’ll be the most help picking them off from above.” He wanted to add a cautionary word about being careful about exactly who he shot, but he held his tongue. Confidence. The boy had to have confidence, and in a first battle, that could melt like snow on a warm spring day.

Hurin simply nodded, and Halbarad was pleased that no displeasure showed on the youth’s face. His older brother had been highly insulted when he was Hurin’s age, and Halbarad suggested he was not ready for personal contact with the enemy. Hurin might have his head in the clouds, but he was often wise beyond his years; he was a thinker, something Halbarad appreciated after two older children who were as hard headed as…he was, or so his wife said. If Hurin had not looked so much like Halbarad’s father, and if he had not known his wife’s integrity so well, he might have questioned Hurin’s paternity.

He motioned to his men and they began the quiet trek into position. The sun dipped lower, casting the woods into a deeply shadowed hall of dusky light and obscure shapes. After settling into his position, he checked his weapons for ease of use once more and spotted the position of each of his men. Elrohir stood with him, ready to watch his back when the time came for blades and brute force. Halbarad glanced at Hurin where he stood at the back of a wide oak, his bow at ready and an arrow nocked. He looked so young that Halbarad, for a moment, thought himself insane for allowing the boy anywhere near danger, but Hurin held himself with a calm that made Halbarad swallow hard.

If Halbarad had his way, he would be at Hurin’s back, but he could not lead his men and have the kind of emotional attachment a father had for his son. He had to maintain distance so the boy could act without his father looking over him. And Halbarad’s focus had to be on all the men, not just his child. Letting go was always hard, but for no discernible reason, this son seemed younger than his brother when he first met the enemy.

“He’ll be fine,” Elrohir whispered.

Halbarad tore his gaze from Hurin. “He will.” Wanting to believe his own words with every nerve ending that sparked with worry, he took a deep breath and set his watch back on the inky slash along the eastern wall of the wash.

When all the orcs had stumbled out of their den, Halbarad gave the signal and arrows found their marks. The orcs tripped in surprise over their fallen, but recovered to draw swords and charge up the gully toward higher ground and toward where the rangers were positioned.

Halbarad didn’t have time to observe his son’s shots, but when he drew his sword to meet the charging orcs, he glanced to reassure himself that Hurin still stood and still fought. Without time to even enjoy relief, Halbarad’s sword blocked the first blow.

The fight was over before the night had fully arrived. Orcs lay scattered throughout the ravine and at the mouth where the rangers had blocked their exit. Blood and torn flesh littered the ground as if a bird of prey had ripped life from its quarry. War was brutal and death was no respecter of its victims; it reaped its prize with cruel indifference. With relief, he saw only the enemy’s remains.

Halbarad counted only two with minor wounds among his men. Hurin remained at the tree where Halbarad had posted him, but his dark eyes were large and fixed on the carnage that lay at his feet. Halbarad made his way up the incline to his son. The boy swallowed hard and brought his gaze to Halbarad. Hurin’s knuckles had turned white where he gripped his bow, and his hand quaked until he pressed it into his thigh. Halbarad put his arm around Hurin’s shoulders and pulled him to his side. “You did well,” he said steadying the shivering boy against his own body. “You did well.”

Hurin turned and vomited.

Halbarad patted him on the back. He’d done that a time or two himself.

                       *******

Gray morning light pushed back the night when the last of the orc bodies had been burned. The rangers, covered in sweat and soot, slogged their way back to the other side of the ridge where they had quartered their horses.

In silence, they mounted and left behind the stink of orcs and of burning flesh. They could stop later, near the stream where they had camped the night before. Then, home.

Halbarad called a halt late in the afternoon. He groaned as he slid from his horse. Every muscle in his body ached and his joints clicked and protested every move. No one else looked any better. Elrohir’s weary stare flared with relief when Halbarad pointed out the wide sandy area to make camp.

Brandol clutched his lower back and wandered toward the stream to wash. Hurin, moving with an alacrity the older rangers envied, still slouched as if fatigue had made his torso grow too long, too fast, and he could no longer hold it upright. Halbarad and Elrohir joined them.

“What were the orcs doing so close to the Shire?” Hurin asked and wrung out his freshly washed shirt.

“What makes you think they were going to the Shire?” Halbarad asked, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. Little ears often heard things not meant for them, even when all care was taken. Not that Halbarad could have answered the question of why the Shire was important, but it was, at least to Aragorn. He’d known Aragorn long enough to trust him, not just because he was chieftain, but because Aragorn would not ask anyone to do anything he would not do himself, nor would he issue an order without just cause.

Hurin shrugged. “I suppose they could have veered back southwest toward Bree,” he said. “But I thought they were heading around Bree, to the north, toward the Shire. Why would they go there?”

“I don’t know,” Halbarad said. “I suppose they could have merely been roaming, looking for whatever they could find.”

“Probably just poking around,” Brandol said and stretched out on the sandy bank, finally clean and drowsy eyed.

“Why do we protect the Shire with posted guards when we don’t Bree?” Hurin asked throwing his shirt over a boulder to dry in the late afternoon heat.

Brandol closed his eyes. “The little folk are a kind and innocent people. Someone needs to look out for them. We cannot leave them with no one watching. They would be like sheep for the wolves.”

“But do not think them simpleminded,” Elrohir said. “Hobbits are wise in their way, but they rarely leave the Shire, content to farm their land and enjoy their lives. They don’t know what evil lurks in wait beyond their borders. Such innocence should be protected.”

Halbarad wondered how much Elrohir knew about Aragorn’s reasons for posting a guard on the Shire. He wouldn’t ask. If Aragorn wanted him to know, he would tell him. Halbarad took the absence of explanation from Aragorn as message enough; there were risks Aragorn was not willing to take in revealing his reasons, and Halbarad had no way of knowing that it wasn’t for the protection of the rangers as well as the Hobbits that they were not privy to the whole story.

“It is our responsibility to watch over these lands,” Halbarad said. “That includes the Shire. It’s a trust and a blessing that we are able.”

“It isn’t easy though,” Hurin said giving the idea its due thought. “We sacrifice much and leave our families at a disadvantage sometimes.” Before Halbarad had a reply, since what Hurin said was true, Hurin pondered the situation and found his own conclusion. “I suppose there are things in life that might not appear fair, but I don’t think that what we do is unmerited. I don’t think it’s ever wrong to do the right thing, and it is the right thing to help people who need it. Knowing that, it’s not really a sacrifice. We choose to do it and what we give, we give freely.”

“Well said,” Brandol muttered in a near doze.

Elrohir spied Halbarad over Hurin’s head and smiled.

“You’re a smart young man,” Halbarad said, “even if you are mine.”

Hurin’s smile stretched across his face, a rosy plain now, scrubbed clean of dirt and soot. He didn’t look quite as young and inexperienced as he had just a few hours earlier. There were still no whiskers on his chin, only milk fuzz and a faint moustache over his lip, but his eyes were clear and in them, Halbarad saw focus. A boy was turning into a man right before his eyes and his throat closed with a lump of pride.

After assigning watch, Halbarad ate the rabbit stew they had all contributed to with leftover bits of dried vegetables stowed in their packs and a few unidentifiable items they threw in anyway.

Hurin sat down with his bowl next to Halbarad. “Father, you did not assign me to a watch. Did I do something wrong?”

Halbarad swallowed the bite of stew he had only half chewed. “Of course not. I didn’t take a watch last night, nor did Elrohir. You and Brandol can sleep off this…this…meal.” He groaned. “Bless the Valar, I miss your mother’s cooking.”

Hurin laughed and Halbarad reveled in the sound of his son’s voice. It had changed a year or so back, and it still wasn’t the voice of a fully grown man, but Hurin’s was maturing. Halbarad didn’t think he could love this child more than he already did, but with the sound of his son’s laugher, he blessed the present; this time he had with his son. In Halbarad’s chest, hope coiled and hung on the love and pride he felt for this child, for all the children of the Dunedain.

“I hated to complain,” Hurin said and blew a burst of breath over the steaming stew in his bowl, “but I’ve missed Mother’s cooking too. I might have to see if I can pick up some tips from her so that our meals won’t be so dismal.”

“A poet, a cook, and a ranger,” Halbarad said. “You’re a new beginning for the rangers. Everyone will want you in their patrol so they can eat decently.”

“After I learn, I could teach the others,” Hurin said.

Halbarad chuckled. “You do that.” Changing the culinary ways of rangers would not be easy. They ate what was put in front of them and passed their time complaining about the tasteless stews and the overcooked game. Hurin would not easily pry them from their sport by insisting they learn to cook.

                      *******

After finishing his first round of watch for the night, Halbarad returned to a smooth boulder on the bank of the same stream where they had camped a day earlier. He stood with his back to the rock, watching the moon’s silvery play on the shallows.

Elrohir joined him, sitting on the stone and watching the light flickering on the water.

“It’s not as hot tonight,” Halbarad said.

Elrohir blew his breath out. “Before long, we will all be complaining that it is too long until spring.” He shifted, finding a more comfortable seat. “I will leave you in the morning to return home.”

Halbarad looked over his shoulder. “You think they’ve missed you yet?”

Elrohir smiled, the moon’s glow on his face brightening for a moment. “I do not want my brother to think he can do without me. Besides, I promised my father I would return as quickly as possible. I think Glorfindel has plans for my brother and me. He does not allow us much time off duty.”

“Let’s hope someday our descendents’ duty will be no more than getting corn rows straight.”

“Elves farming corn,” Elrohir chuckled. “There’s a picture I want to see…from the porch.”

“There’s something soothing about working the land,” Halbarad said, “watching growth from seed to fruit.”

“Or watching a newborn mature into an adult.”

Halbarad turned and faced Elrohir. “I’ve realized that there’s a place for dreamers. Without them, we would never venture from the past or try new ways. We would never imagine or reach for a potential we didn’t know was within ourselves.”

“Every generation has its dreamers,” Elrohir agreed. “They are indeed the lifeblood of continued existence.” His voice took on a note of sadness. “Change is inevitable. It’s best to direct it when possible.”

Halbarad propped on the rock next to Elrohir. “The Dunedain have seen many trials, most wrought by our own hands. But we have also seen goodness and strength. Our past set into motion our present and our future, and one day, we will be restored, and this land will be at peace.”

“And in the hands of men with vision.” Elrohir clapped Halbarad on the shoulder.

“Aragorn will be king,” Halbarad said with conviction.

“It is our hope,” Elrohir agreed. “But he does not go toward the throne without support. His people, my people, the people of Middle-earth,” Elrohir said, “are the dreams which lead him.”

Halbarad didn’t know if Elrohir saw his people as elves, men, or both, but his blood allowed him choice. Elrond and Celebrían’s children were unique among men and elves; they were the culmination of the past and the stepping stone to the future. Arwen would one day stand at Aragorn’s side and the old would become the new.

Slapping his knee, Halbarad stood and took a few paces back toward the stream. “It’s time to take a walk around again.”

Elrohir sighed and slid from the rock. “Don’t find anything, Halbarad. I’m looking forward to a quiet watch.”

“I’ll just shoot anything I find and not bother you,” Halbarad said and took the northwest trail along the creek.

A tree, long felled and brittle with age, blocked his path and stretched its barren limbs into water that skipped over them with little care. He stepped onto a trunk three men could have not put their arms around and searched the dark recess of the nearby forest. The air smelled of decayed leaves and damp riverbanks and of the hint of cooler air he hoped would hold until the rangers returned home. Spring was not spent yet; it was too soon to be sweltering in long heat driven days. Spring deserved her due.

He stepped from the trunk and walked until he came to a clearing, a circle of trees ringing a grass and wildflower meadow so perfect in circumference it looked created by man instead of nature.

A giggle startled him and he whirled toward the sound. “Elrohir?” he said. It would be like the elf to tease him about Hurin’s ghosts. Another giggle answered him. The voice was too high and light to have been a man…or an adult elf. He took a step forward. “Hello?”

Something darted across his peripheral vision, between the trees. He snapped his head in that direction, but there was nothing to see save the outline of underbrush and leafy limbs.

A giggle came from the other side of the circle and he spun toward it. It was only a glimpse, but he saw it, plain as sunrise and as clear as the summer sky: a child, dressed in white, her dark hair flying behind her as she ran, and her face alight with moonbeams.

Chills played over his body from head to toe, and he froze, staring into the space where the child had been. “Who are you?” he whispered.

A giggle wafted on the wind. “Tomorrow,” whispered in return.

Halbarad shook his head to clear it. There was nothing there; he was certain he imagined the child; a hallucination brought on by Hurin’s tale and his own sentimental musings. But he waited on the chance that something or someone else would make their presence known. When nothing but the nighttime croaking of crickets and the fluttering of leaves in the wind stirred, he left the circle to complete his rounds.